


A Certain Type of Man

by vanete_druse



Category: 12 Monkeys (TV)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Smut, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanete_druse/pseuds/vanete_druse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Scavs probably just looking for something to eat, screw, or piss on. You boys would know best."</i><br/><i>"No, you tell me, Whitley. See, I hear there's a certain type of man, and he</i> loves <i> to be pissed on."</i><br/><i>"Watch yourself, little man."</i><br/><i>"You like little men?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Type of Man

When Ramse pops his head into Whitley’s quarters, he expects at least a minute acknowledgment from the other man – a raising of the head, a turning of the body, hell, a wiggling of his ears – but instead is met with resolute indifference, hunched over reports on his desk as if there was no movement in his peripheral. _And isn’t that a damn lie_.

“So I’m getting the cold shoulder now, hm? You know, if I wasn’t such a heartless Scav, I might actually be a little hurt.” Ramse invites himself in, rather than get caught red-handed in the doorway, acting like a peeping Tom. _Well, I certainly wouldn’t be the only pervert here._ “What’d I do? Chew too loudly at the table?”

With a sigh, Whitley puts down his pen and finally turns to face Ramse, currently making himself at home in his bed. “Did you really have to bring _that_ up in front of Cole?”

“What, that you’re a deviant? Please, Cole already knew that. Nobody as proper as you are isn’t at least a little bit disgusting in bed.”

Here comes the narrowing of those dark eyes, and Ramse knows now that he should probably start treading a bit more carefully at this point; he doesn’t really believe that Whitley would be so petty as to throw him out on his ass over a minor lover’s dispute, but he also knows better than to be lulled into a false sense of security. “Still, I would _prefer_ to maintain a level of _discretion_ about these things. I can’t have the little bit of personal life I have getting out amongst my command.”

Knowing now that it’s probably the time to kiss and make up, Ramse stands and approaches Whitley in the chair, lazily hugging him from behind, letting his face rest against the top of the other man’s head. “Yes, of course, _Sergeant_. Although I wouldn’t worry about Cole too much. He’s my brother and I love him to death, but the man is oblivious when it comes to certain things.”

Whitley leans into the embrace and Ramse knows now that he’s been forgiven, at least for a little while. Which means he can now fulfill his true purpose of stopping by Whitley’s room. In fact, he has one leg up to straddle the sitting man when Whitley stills him, shaking his head. “No, don’t do that.”

“Why not?” Ramse asks, but he can already see the answer now that he’s looking for it – despite Whitley’s perfect control, there’s still a small twitch here, a certain way of carrying his weight that tells Ramse just how close he is to losing it. “ _Ohhh_. You cheeky bastard. You weren’t really mad, you were just stalling since you’re holding.”

“Shut up. What I just said I meant and you’ll do good to remember that.”

“Or what? I won’t have the privilege to piss all over you anymore?”

Ducking his head slightly in embarrassment, Whitley rubs his face with his hand and it’s enough of a distraction to allow Ramse to slip into his lap, deliberately pressing gently on his lower body to make the other man moan. “Stop it, get up so I can at least take my clothes off first.”

This thought can’t help but make Ramse laugh. “So, so proper. Can’t even bring yourself to _defile_ the uniform, hm? In the world we live in now, and you still think that a couple yards of fabric means _so much_?” There’s a slight struggle, Whitley wiggling underneath him, but they both know that if he really wanted Ramse off of him, he could easily have pushed him off. “No, you’re just still ashamed. Just the same as when I first caught you. You remember that, yeah?”

Whitley nods, but Ramse figures it’d be fun to torture him with a little story time anyways. “We were on patrol up top…”

\---

**YEAR**

**2042**

_It’s always amazing to Ramse how, after all the carnage left from the decimation of the human race, the foliage around him still feels so fresh, so untouched. The slight crunch of the crisp leaves underneath his boot sounds the same as it did when he was a kid, playing hide and seek in the forest behind his house with the other neighborhood kids._

_But there are no kids here, and this is an entirely different sort of game. There is only Whitley, someone he might be worried about if he wasn’t so certain of his strict moral guide._

_The only noise is their feet as they move. Ramse shifts slightly and figures this is as good a place as any to relieve that annoying little pressure in his abdomen. “Hey, wait a minute. I gotta piss.”_

_“_ Excuse _me? Didn’t you go before we left the compound?” Whitely asks, a little shrilly, and Ramse can’t help but roll his eyes as he hitches his gun onto his back and steps up to a tree._

_“You sound like a nagging wife. Just cover me for a second, okay?” And with that, he unzips and starts to pee, not waiting any longer for Whitley to somehow convince him to try and hold it until they get back to the compound, as if he’s some sort of child._

_He can’t help but sense Whitley’s eyes on him, boring a hole into his back –_ probably a death glare for holding us up _– but after years of surviving on the streets with Cole, he’s all but lost any sense of shyness he might have once had._

 _Finishing, he zips and turns back around to face Whitley, still staring at him. Yet it’s not with anger or frustration; if he’s seeing things right, the other man’s dark skin almost looks flushed, holding his gun not with the precise fighter stance as before, but awkwardly in front of himself. “What, you gotta go too now? I promise I won’t peek.”_ Which is more than can be said for you.

_“I don’t think I’m feeling too well, actually. Maybe we should just cut the patrol short for the day and head back to the compound.”_

_It’s true, Whitley did seem off, but Ramse figured the man would have to be dying of the plague before a slight stomach- or headache stopped him from performing his duties. “Are you trying to bench me just because I had to piss? Man, I’m sorry for being human.”_

_“It’s fine. You can stop talking about your pissing now.”_

_Something clicks in Ramse’s head; maybe it’s the scrap of an old fetish porn magazine he found back when he first met Cole, or just the general awkwardness of a prude forced to deal with sex that Whitley’s exuding, that brings it all together for him. “Oh, Sergeant. Who knew you had it in you.” Whitley’s step falters but Ramse pretends like he doesn’t notice, simply keeps talking normally, as if discussing the weather. “But then, I guess I can’t be too shocked. It’s always the uptight ones who are the secret perverts.”_

_In a heartbeat, Ramse has a gun barrel in his face, and he halfheartedly raises his hands, letting his own weapon fall against his chest. “Call me a pervert again and see what happens.”_

_Ramse doesn’t respond, merely flicks his eyes downward to the military man’s arousal and back up again, smirking. “Well it ain’t exactly missionary with the missus, if you know what I mean.” Reaching forward, he gently pushes the gun to point at the ground, before continuing. “But it also ain’t the weirdest thing ever. I’ve seen some shit out in this world that I really rather not have, makes something like what you like seem tame in comparison.”_

_“You don’t know what I like,” is all Whitley can think to say, but he keeps the gun down, so at least there’s progress._

_“You like it when I whip it out and piss on a tree. It’s not really that much of a leap to figure you’d prefer it on yourself,” Ramse shrugs. “Probably while getting fucked real good too because otherwise then what’s the point?”_

_“You’re obscene,” Whitley spits at him, but there’s no vitriol behind what’s clearly meant as an insult. Ramse starts counting and only barely makes it to five before he finds himself pressed against the nearest tree, being kissed for the first time in years, with such an intensity he doesn’t even bother to care very much who it’s from._

_“Sorry, tank’s all empty for right now,” Ramse mutters against Whitley’s lips, making him laugh in a way he’s never quite seen before. “But next time…”_

\---

“…you should’ve seen the look on your face too, like I promised you a puppy for your birthday,” Ramse concludes with a laugh.

“It almost felt like it,” Whitley gasps out, before throwing his head back and groaning. “Oh god, I’m gonna fucking piss.”

“About damn time,” Ramse smirks, grinding down on Whitley’s lap, just to hear the small gasp it elicits before the flooding, both their pants darkening from the urine steadily dripping on to the cement floor.

Unbuckling their belts, Ramse doesn’t even wait until Whitley’s finished before he slips his hand down his pants to grasp his cock, already mostly hard, and starts to rub. “Fuck me,” he commands, the only time he can openly demand anything from Whitley and have it be accepted without question, without constant reminders of who’s really the one in charge.

Whitley grips his hips, is about to shuffle them over to the bed when Ramse stops him. “Nah, too impatient and don’t wanna mess your bed. Here, just do it here.” It’s a little awkward, with the desk digging into his back, but it’s a self-inflicted discomfort, so he doesn’t really mind too much as he’s pulling down his pants.

Standing for leverage, Whitley’s quick prepping isn’t really enough, but there’s a slight masochistic streak within him that can’t help but love the burn. Dully, Ramse can’t help but wonder if the old desk can even withstand this sort of treatment – it wobbles slightly with every thrust – but then Whitley finds just that right spot, and all such worries fly out of his head as he arches his back, moaning and begging for more.

It’s always kind of a strange mixture with Whitley, this sort of savage heat countered with soft kisses in between breaths, unlike any of Ramse’s other relationships; but he thinks that’s what keeps him here, in this odd liaison that has no reason to really work at all.

Also, there’s something about getting fucked on a full bladder that is so deliciously satisfying. If Ramse cared more, he might think it has to do with a more intensified need to release, but he doesn’t, only cares about how good it feels, especially when he lets out a stream that hits Whitley on the beige t-shirt he didn’t bother to take off, making him shudder and moan inside of him. “You’re so fucking filthy,” the darker man hisses, digging his fingernails into his hips, becoming all the more frantic.

“You love it,” Ramse retorts, before letting go entirely, drenching himself, Whitley, and the floor beneath the desk.

A few moments later, and Whitley is cumming with a soft, “Oh _fuck_ ,” murmured against Ramse’s lips. He doesn’t say anything else, no warning as he hitches his pants back up and immediately falls to his knees, hands still grasping Ramse’s now bruised hips, sucking him down entirely.

“You dirty little pisswhore,” is the last thing Ramse can articulate before he’s seeing stars, his whole body losing form underneath Whitley’s dexterous tongue.

There’s always a moment directly afterwards, coming down from the orgasmic high, that’s a glimpse into what could’ve been – a soft touch here, the indescribable desire to stay touching, skin to skin – if it weren’t for the war raging on outside, the constant fighting just to survive. Ramse slides off the desk and tucks himself back into his pants, now cold and damp. “Well…until next time, I guess, Whitley.”

“Marcus,” Whitley says, before shaking his head a little, standing up. “You can call me Marcus when we…I mean, if you want.”

 _We’re not boyfriends,_ Ramse wants to reply, to see how far down his words cut in the vulnerability of the moment. _This is just fucking, nothing more._

What he actually says is, “Yeah, sure,” watching the way the other man visibly relaxes slightly. His clothes are still wet and he’s not exactly looking forward to the walk back to his own quarters, so obviously disheveled and reeking, which is the only reason he pauses halfway to the door and asks, “Need any help cleaning up?”

Whitley nods. Ramse figures with Cole living it up in the past, no one will really notice if he doesn’t quite make it back to his room for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this pretty much directly after 1x03 aired, and before 1x04 aired. So that's essentially the kind of time frame that this fic takes place in. After that first scene with Whitley in 1x03, and the lines I quoted in the summary, I couldn't get this idea out of my head and had to write it. Please forgive me for this, my dear fandom.


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